


Elemental

by Milo



Category: One Piece
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Developing Friendships, Gen, Medical Procedures, Slow Burn, Trans Character, raging scotsman eustass kid gets sent to anger management class, when i say slow burn i mean i'm putting this in a crockpot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2019-10-24 07:14:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17699969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milo/pseuds/Milo
Summary: Putting himself back together after a resounding loss isn't as easy as Kid thought.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ...yeah idk how this happened either
> 
> anyhow: this is an expansion of "Can't" from [this collection](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15441408/chapters/40861481) cause i guess i'm on a kick with expanding on existing ficlets lmao. i gave myself a challenge with a pairing that has a dynamic i've never really cared for to see if i couldn't find that spark of chemistry that draws me in. ended up with this
> 
> this one's going to update at a leisurely pace cause i'm.......honestly really busy with at least half a dozen other pieces at the moment and it's not high priority for me atm. anyway hopefully this is enjoyable for someone other than me

The doctor can’t put Kid’s arm back on. The flesh is dead. Long dead. Killer has to hold him back from breaking the man’s neck. The rest of the crew has to hold him down to cauterize the wound. The scar is mangled, burnt, ugly, and he hates it.   
  
He hates doctors. He hates wounds. But most of all, he hates Red-Haired Shanks. Especially when the full scale of what he’d lost finally sets in.   
  
The first day without pain, he falls back into bed after trying to use a phantom arm to support him. A piece of broken rigging falls from the crow’s nest straight onto him when he tries to block it with the stump arm. Lifting shit one-handed leaves him dropping the whole load. He can’t hold fast to something and fight at the same time. Even his Devil Fruit is off balance. Can’t land a decent hit.   
  
Can’t. Can’t can’t can’t. He fucking hates that word, too.   
  
“I’m gonna kill him,” Kid hisses as he shatters the furniture in the galley, his good arm covered in sharp metal scraps. “I’m gonna bash his stupid face in!”   
  
Crunch. An end table splinters under the blow. Then, a mirror shatters, scattering glass shards across the floor. He beats several chairs against a wall already bearing telltale signs of the captain’s past tantrums.   
  
“Kid, seriously, stop,” Killer pleads from somewhere behind him. “We just replaced all of this–!”   
  
“Furniture don’t mean shit!” Kid yells. “Where’s my fucking arm, huh?! Can’t replace  _ that _ !”   
  
He tears through the couch. Stuffing explodes everywhere. Springs pop out and push back against his blows to the frame. Fucking couch. Stupid fucking couch–! He bashes it right into the floor. One strike. Then two. Then finally three, when he hears the floorboards crack under the force of the blow.   
  
He clenches, then un-clenches his fist. He swears he feels his dead hand do the same. The metal surrounding his remaining arm falls to the ground, piece by piece, until he’s left with his bare arm, the scarred stump, and a whole lot of broken shit.

 

* * *

 

A bottle bursts in his grip. Sticky soda pop and glass cling to the lumpy metal mass that just vaguely resembles a fat mitten. Kid growls and throws what remains to the galley floor with the other seven he’s destroyed.

“Stupid fuckin’ bottles‘re too weak,” Kid mutters, reaching for another.

He’s not slept in a week. Barely eaten much outside of finger food and crisps. His dead arm is throbbing, his head hurts, and god he fucking wants a drink. But no, no. He’s not supposed to. Not til the damn arm heals or whatever. Blood poisoning be damned, he wasn’t going to let it get in the way of him having something decent in all this shit. And if Killer had a goddamn problem with it--

“Kid.”

Speak of the devil.

“What?”

“I really think you need a proper prosthesis.”

Kid rolls his head back to glare at Killer. “Got a problem with my hulking metal arm?” he asks.

“Not really. But that case of cola you destroyed does,” Killer says, not missing a beat.

Kid eyes the mess on the floor. It’s still wet and soaking into the floorboards, which are already slightly warped from many, many previous spills. He shoves the pile of glass aside. Okay,  _ maybe _ Killer had a point. He was getting real tired of busting every single bottle he tried to open. Better to tape a stick to his stump and call it an arm than to watch his good scotch shatter to pieces next.

“So what then?” Kid asks. “Ain’t like plastic arms just sproutin’ outta the ground.” He absentmindedly begins picking at a loose string on his shirt. “Think the doc’s got one layin’ about?”

“I called a specialist.”

“Oh yeah? Whozzat?”

He hears Killer turn toward the doorway, stick his head out, and say something to someone outside. Kid arches his eyebrows. What, were they already here? Who the hell gave that order? Cause he sure as hell didn’t allow random-ass fuckers on his ship. Besides. They had a doctor, why did they need to bring in  _ another _ one?  As he’s about to snap at Killer, the doctor walks in. 

It’s Trafalgar. Not the usual “gives no fucks” version; he’s gone and found himself some stupid edgy emo coat, a stupider hat, and some ugly-ass black bag full of god knows what.

“Hello again, Eu--” Trafalgar begins.

“You called fuckin’  _ Trafalgar _ ?” Kid hisses at Killer. “When ye gonna get it through ye fuckin’ head that we aren’t here t’make friends with the enemy?!”

He charges Trafalgar, stopping just inches from him. He glowers down, making full use of his taller, bulkier, intimidating build. Yet Trafalgar is unfazed. Instead he merely looks Kid over and chooses to walk around him.

“Where’s ye crew, huh?” Kid snaps, rounding on him as he passes by. “Waitin’ like cowards til we’re all bleedin’ asleep?”

“I’m currently traveling alone,” Trafalgar responds. He sets down his medical kit and withdraws two blue latex gloves. “I have personal business to tend to. Killer offered to drop me off where I need to be in exchange for this.”

Kid gives Killer the stink eye. Bloody first mate thinks he runs the damn ship. If he didn’t love the man like a brother he’d throw him overboard. Or maybe he’ll still throw him overboard. Killer could swim and he’s pissed enough to make heads roll. The dull clang of metal shrapnel attaching to his stump arm as he seethes fills the room. Trafalgar glances over at him.

“Your Devil Fruit power?”

“None of ye fuckin’ business.”

Again, Trafalgar is unfazed. He approaches, tugging both gloves on, and prods a piece of a cast iron rod. Kid jerks his shoulder away.

“ _ Don’t _ touch me!” he exclaims.

“Were you able to feel that?” Trafalgar asks. “I didn’t realize there was any sensation through the metal.”

“ _ There ain’t! It’s metal, ye daft eejit! _ ”

God, he’s two steps from a screaming match and one step from making Trafalgar feel all the sensations of metal cutting through his innards. The metal on him is starting to fuse together into a solid alloy mess of appliances, junk, silverware, and weapons. Trafalgar circles him at a safe distance, taking in everything. Then, he clicks his tongue, and turns toward Killer.

“Can you excuse us?” he asks.

Killer tilts his head and crosses his arms. “Why should I?” he says. “Surely anything you have to say or do to Kid can be done in front of me.”

Images of being stabbed in the arse with a giant-ass needle while Killer’s ominous, expressionless stare focuses on him plague Kid’s mind. He’s not a damn clue why he’d even need a shot in the arse. But every time he went to the infirmary it was always  _ something _ . He hated doctors. Fuck ‘em.

“If ye daft enough t’think that gettin’ me alone will be enough to kill me,” Kid starts, tone dangerously low. “Ye dead wrong, shithead.”

Trafalgar isn't amused.

“I’m not here to be the Surgeon of Death, Eustass,” he says calmly. “I’m here to be Dr. Trafalgar Law, Ph.D, the one who helps fix your mobility issues.” Then, he furrows his eyebrows. “As if I’d stoop low enough to forgo the Hippocratic oath.”

Kid glares at Trafalgar. Trafalgar stares back. Then, Kid grits his teeth together and jerks his head toward the door.

“Go stand outside,” he says. “If he does some shite I’ll call ye, aye?”

Though reluctant, Killer obliges. Once gone, Kid drops himself down on the ratty old couch, arms crossed, and stares Trafalgar down. Said dumbass doctor dug around in his stupid Mary Poppins bag.

“When did you lose the limb?” Trafalgar asks.

“Week ‘n a half ago,” Kid mumbles.

“And you’ve been nursing the wound?”

“Ain’t a wee bairn, Trafalgar,” he says. “Don’t need to nurse nothing. Doc sewed it up. It’s fine.”

Trafalgar looks up from his bag tiredly. Then, he sighs. He sets out some glass bottle of...something that looks an awful lot like sunscreen. Then some kinda torture kit with needle and thread. What, was he planning to fix one of Kid’s missing buttons? And then--oh. Oh no. Oh  _ fuck _ no. 

Kid’s eyes go wide as Trafalgar wipes a scalpel down with rubbing alcohol. The lumpy prosthesis demagnetizes and clatters to the floor in a cacophony of clanking. He cups his stump arm.

“I don’t need more bleedin’ skin off!” he yells.

“Relax. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“What, that thing’s just for show then?! Bullshit!”

“ _ Room. _ ”

The area around them becomes engulfed by--something. Trafalgar’s Devil Fruit power. Probably. The feeling is vaguely familiar from the one time he’d experienced it on Sabaody. Trafalgar then places the cleaned scalpel down among his other weapons, reaches out to Kid, and taps his good hand. Kid bares his teeth.

“Now now, Eustass,” Trafalgar says. “I’m just going to look at it.”

“Don’t talk t’me like I’m some fuckin’ dog, Trafalgar.”

But, after a moment of determined resistance that leaves him feeling a bit too much like a toddler in a clinic, he relents. Trafalgar peels his hand off of the bandaged stump. Kid watches nervously as the wound is skillfully unwrapped and exposed to the open air. The stitching is ugly and mangled, still red with crusty with dried blood in places. The burned skin isn’t helping much either.

Trafalgar gently rests the pad of his gloved thumb on the stitching, gaze sharp and focused. The remaining fingers follow suit, and soon enough he has Trafalgar’s creepy-ass spider fingers all over his numb skin. Trafalgar’s eyes close and he goes completely still.

The silence is unnerving.

“Ye got geriatric hands,” Kid blurts out.

“Your criticism has been logged,” Trafalgar responds. “You’ve got an infection.”

Kid frowns. “What?”

“It’s actually obvious from the exterior, but I wanted a good read of the interior first.” Trafalgar presses gently against the stitches. “Warm, a bit of pus leaking out from a tear. It’s a little swollen, too. Luckily it hasn’t spread terribly far. I’ll still need to open and clean it, though.”

Trafalgar lifts one hand from the stump, grabs a pen from his pocket, and it instantly switches places with the scalpel on the table. Kid does a double-take. Oh, he can teleport shit too? Great. He’s going to rob them all of their vital organs when they’re asleep, isn’t he?

“Stop looking at me like that,” Trafalgar says. “It’s only to allow me access to the wound. It won’t hurt you.”

Kid eyes the blade and anxiously shifts in his seat. Trafalgar can do all kinds of weird shit but he’s not so sure how much he believes that a goddamn blade slicing his skin won’t hurt him. But the more he protests, the more he can hear Killer’s voice in his head calling him a baby. Trafalgar watches him boredly. Kid inhales, exhales, then extends the stump. If he’s gonna have to bleed all over the carpet, it’s Killer’s mess to clean up.

“Fine. Whatever. Just do it already.”

Trafalgar wields the scalpel like he’s going to stab someone. Kid freezes and closes his eyes. Trafalgar’s arm comes down in a wide slice--

…

Nothing. 

Kid cracks open an eye.

“I  _ said _ \--”

He falls silent when he realizes his stubby arm is split open. Just. Right down the middle, bone, blood, muscle, skin--real clean and everything. And it’s moving. Kid stares at it. The only time he sees his innards is when something stupid happens and they become his outtards. Even then, it’s a bloody mass of flesh he can’t really take in. That, and usually he’s fucked up enough that he doesn’t give a damn.

But this? This is  _ really _ fucked up.

“ _ Don’t _ touch it,” Trafalgar warns, swatting Kid’s fingers as he reaches over to poke his own marrow. “I’m not going to fix your infection just to see you die from  _ blood poisoning _ .”

“Ye callin’ me dirty?” Kid retorts.

“Filthy.”

Kid lets out a snort. He keeps his hands clean. Hand. Just one hand now. He flexes the fingers of said remaining limb. No dirt or grease as far as he can see. What’s he making a big deal about poison or whateverthefuck for?

There’s no chance to snark Trafalgar, though. He’s immediately switched from Dr. Sarcasm to an actual serious physician. He twitches and gestures with his fingers this way and that along the pathways of Kid’s veins. As he comes to the end of the stump, Kid sees what he’s dragged out--and it’s  _ disgusting _ . Some awful mix of pus and blood and whatever. And it stinks to high hell.

“The hell is that?” Kid grumbles, wrinkling his nose.

“The bacteria from your wound.” Trafalgar’s eyes are on the slime, which he guides into his hand. Then, he uses his empty hand to pull his other glove over it, knot it, and set it aside. “An incinerator should do for disposing of that.”

Trafalgar twirls his fingers. Kid’s stump arm snaps shut. Again, it doesn’t hurt, but fuck if it doesn’t get his skin crawling when he sees his tissues seamlessly close once again. He runs his hand over his scarred and stitched skin. Well. Even if that was weird as hell, his arm does feel a little less gross. Trafalgar reaches out to him again to poke the stitches.

“I’m going to redo these,” he declares. It’s a statement, not a question. “They’re hideous.”

Kid groans loudly and stares at the ceiling. Part of him wants to holler for Killer. But he knows that Killer will just laugh at him for being a baby and tell him to get the damn stitches done. The doctor knows best or some shit. He pouts and looks away as Trafalgar again rummages through his bag for supplies.

He hates doctors. All of them.


	2. Chapter 2

Killer lobs a pillow at Kid in his traditional wake-up call.

“It’s morning,” Killer deadpans. “Get up.”

Kid snorts, squeezes his eyes shut, and covers his head with the pillow. “I’m the bloody captain. Ain’t mornin’ til I says so,” he mumbles. “Five more minutes.”

“So what you’re saying is, essentially, I can have your share of breakfast.”

Kid cracks open an eye.

“Awright? Well if it’s  _ you _ eatin’ it, guess that gives me  _ ten _ minutes,” he says. Then, he proceeds to pull his blankets further over himself.  “Gonna need an extra five gettin’ my tattie scones through that cheese grater ye call yer face.”

Seconds later, Killer’s on him, twisting his good arm behind his back. Kid bursts out laughing as Killer takes all of two minutes to wrestle him free of the blankets and put him in a headlock. In retaliation, he magnetizes some metal bolts to Killer’s mask, filling the room with high-pitched clicking.

“Oh, turnin’ into a  _ sensitive _ cheese grater, are ye?” Kid taunts, his laughter choked by Killer’s muscular arms as he’s shoved into the mattress. “--Kkgh! Oi, that hurts...”

After a second of futile struggle, Killer drops him. He lands against his mattress with an, “Oof.” Satisfied with his work, Killer dusts off his hands and heads for the door. Kid rubs his neck. God, he missed the days when he could still overpower Killer.

“Two of your tatties are mine,” Killer calls from the doorway. Kid throws the pillow back at him as the door shuts.

Left to his own devices, he debates passing out again and demanding food later. But, truth be told, he’s starving. And tattie scones are best fresh. He shifts his shoulders, cracks his neck, and--stops himself from using his stump arm to support himself. He scowls at the bandages around it, huffs, then awkwardly hobbles out of bed.  When the smell of sausage and beans wafts into the room from down the hall, however, his mood drastically increases. He strides into the galley with his head held high.

“Better’ve saved the biggest plate for me, aye--”

Heat’s in the kitchen supervising some sizzling sausages. Wire is tending to some old dishes. Trafalgar--

Kid stops in the door. Oh yeah.  _ He’s _ here too, isn’t he. 

Trafalgar is sitting at the table, a small bowl of fruit pudding and an empty plate laid in front of him. It’s bizarre seeing him at breakfast in some old grey shirt and slacks. Like he’s a regular, average person. Kid approaches slowly, drawing Trafalgar’s eyes up from the fruit bowl. He doesn’t stop eating. Kid points toward the other end of the table.

“Get out,” he says. “That’s  _ my _ chair yer arse is in.” Trafalgar looks back down at his bowl and resumes chewing. Kid grinds his teeth. “Ye don’t bleedin’ own the place. Get  _ out _ !”

“Can’t move your feet, you lose your seat,” comes Killer’s dry response from the kitchen. Heat and Wire chuckle to themselves.

“Shut up, Killer!” Kid snaps, face flushing with rage.

He doesn’t like it but, after a while of glaring at Trafalgar, he goes and settles down harshly in the spot where Heat usually sits. It’s stiff and cold and not the right size. He crosses his arms and scrunches up his face. Stupid fucking Trafalgar. Wire brings him the largest plate in the galley packed to the brim with breakfast, but Kid doesn’t feel particularly apologetic. Especially not after Killer swipes two tattie scones from it.

“Oi!” he barks. 

Killer’s expressionless face stares at him. Then, without turning away, his first mate smashes the scone through the holes in the mask. Kid makes a face at him, then shovels a massive spoonful of beans into his mouth.  _ C’mon _ . Killer knows he didn’t mean nothing by that cheese grater shit.

“‘Ow far ‘til th’ forge?” Kid mutters in between bites.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Trafalgar chides, not looking up from his yogurt. Kid spits a few beans in his direction. “What does he mean by that? I wasn’t aware you were making any stops so soon.”

“It’s one of our territories,” Killer answers before Kid can stop him. “An old mining facility. Rich in ore.”

Kid stares at him, wide-eyed, with the most indignant expression he can manage while his cheeks are stuffed. Oh, just go on and tell the bleedin’ bastard everything, huh? What next, is Trafalgar going to know where he keeps his gold, booze, and britches? He swallows and then pushes himself up from the table.

“Don’t get any bright ideas, Traf,” he grumbles. “Can’t even get into th’ bloody place without me.”

Trafalgar arches his eyebrows. “Oh? How so?”

Heat offers Kid a hot cup of coffee. Kid takes it, takes a sip, and slams it down on the table. A nice splash of brown splatters against the table. Nope. Like hell if this asshat was getting everything handed to him on a plate.

“ _ Anyway _ ,” Kid says, turning to his crew.

“If we sail through the night, we’ll be there by morning,” Wire supplies. “Should be fine. We’ve got plenty of fuel.”

Perfect. Just the news he liked to hear. Kid grins and leans back in the chair--then quickly decides that leaning back in this very-not-his seat when he was down a limb was a terrible fucking idea. And he sure as fuck wasn’t going to embarrass himself in front of stupid fucking Trafalgar.  The chair’s feet land back onto the floor. He lifts the aching stump and magnetizes some nearby clutter piled in the corner. It’s a sucky replacement, but it’ll do. Using a set of pliers, he grips the plate shakily, then downs the remainder of his breakfast.

“If anyone needs me,” he starts, tossing the dirtied plate back onto the table. “I’ll be in my room.”

Yet he doesn’t make it five steps down the hall without hearing Trafalgar’s monotone voice.

“Hold on, Eustass. I need to borrow you.”

Kid grinds his teeth, rolls his eyes, then scowls at Trafalgar as he approaches from behind. “What, ye didn’t poke at me enough yet? The hell d’ya want _ now _ ?”

“Your arm.”

Kid grunts and lumbers down the hall. “Ask Red Hair,” he says. “He’s the one who took the damn thing.”

“The one you still have, Eustass.”

Hard to tell if it’s serious or some kind of joke. Trafalgar’s tone is so damn bland it could’ve meant anything. But, much as Kid wants to assume Trafalgar is just fucking with him again, he can hear the sound of his shoes against the floor, trailing him like a dog. The urge to crush Trafalgar’s face in is rising.

“Ye on my ship to gimme an arm,” Kid growls. “Not loot my body for the other.”

Trafalgar hums. “Alright. We’ll do it the hard way, then.”

Kid mimics Trafalgar’s statement under his breath with a sneer. Oh, high and mighty Doctor Death thinks he can just do whatever he bleeding wants.  _ I’m taking your chair, Eustass. How ‘bout a pint, Eustass? A pint of blood? Sever your other arm for me, Eustass. Yes, let me scrape out the marrow for my-- _

When Kid finally reaches for the handle for his door, he realizes his one functioning arm is gone. In its place is a cleanly slices stump of meat. He yelps and jumps back. 

Oh, he’s going to flay him alive.

“ _ TRAFALGAR! _ ” he roars.

He barrels down the hallway with reckless abandon, colliding with the walls, furniture, and fixtures, off-balance and limbless, all the while growling like a bear. When he comes to the makeshift guest room (which is just the storeroom with a hammock in it), he’s practically foaming at the mouth.

And there Trafalgar is, level-headed and calm, measuring various aspects of Kid’s arm as it rests like dead weight on a stack of crates. He measures the length, width, and weight as Kid blankly stares. A flashback from seeing his other arm lifeless and bleeding on the deck of Red Hair’s ship blindsided him. The all too familiar experience of seeing his hand but not being able to move it even as he desperately tries--

He feels faint for a few seconds, but storms into the room.

“You can have it back in a moment,” Trafalgar says. “Let me finish these calculations.”

“ _ I’ll fuckin’ dismember ya! _ ” Kid seethes.

As he descends on Trafalgar, the man flicks his wrist. He’s gone. In his place, a shoe box. Kid’s hulking body crushes it and whatever it was that just noisily popped within it. With a groan, he lifts his head to spot for Trafalgar. He’s on the other side of the room. And Kid, arm-less and dazed from his collision with the floor, is left to lay there like a potato sack.

“Bleedin’ hell…” Kid curses.

“Honestly, Eustass, you’re making such an awful fuss,” Trafalgar says. “Bepo doesn’t even whine like this when I have to examine him.”

“Ye cut my bloody arm off!”

Trafalgar gave him a tired look. “Given your general disposition, my options were to either restrain you and measure it or pop it off and return it,” he said flatly. “If you have another way to collect your measurements to create a synthetic arm, by all means disclose it.”

...Oh. Kid blinks, the boiling rage slowing to a simmer. That...would make sense, wouldn’t it.  He rolls onto his back and, after a few awkward lurches that made him feel all too much like a flipped turtle, he gets to his feet. Seconds later, Trafalgar waves his hand. The arm levitates and fuses back to his body. It’s all pins and needles and gooseflesh which makes Kid scowl and shake the limb.

“ _ Never _ do that again, ye bastard.”

“Apologies,” Law replies. “I don’t normally do that without asking. I lost my patience.” He writes something down on a small spiral notepad. “Your height and weight?”

“Um…” Kid racks his brain. “Two-hundred five centimeters, and--I dunno, fourteen stone?” Trafalgar stops writing and furrows his eyebrows at Kid. “...What’re ye lookin’ at?”

“In kilograms, please.”

Kid hisses. Math. Fucking hell. The longer it takes him to do the mental calculations, and the longer that Trafalgar stands there tapping his pencil, the more humiliated he feels. What, is he supposed to just know everything at the drop of a hat??

“Ninety kilos,” he finally blurts out. “Or somethin’ like that.”

Trafalgar clicks his tongue. “Sounds about right. The arm itself came out to around four kilos.”

Kid stares down at his hand, flexing each finger as if for the first time. Then, he peers over Trafalgar’s shoulder as he continues writing. It’s all in a messy scrawl of numbers, equations, and words so strangely written they don’t even look like standard. Kid makes a face, scrutinizing it all.

“And ye need to know all this shite... _ why _ , exactly?” he asks.

“To provide more stability through balance,” Law explains. “When you lost the other arm, you also lost a portion of your body weight which you were accustomed to. You’re off-balanced now. We need to correct it. But if we apply too much weight, then the prosthesis will slow you down and strain that side of your body further.”

“Huh.” 

Don’t make it top heavy. Makes sense. The same balance was necessary when he was crafting shit. Couldn’t just cobble whateverthefuck together and assume it’ll be right as rain. In retrospect, his lumpy temporary arm seemed all the more ridiculous. Kid ponders it. Now, if he could craft something roughly the same size and weight a half-decent alloy, combined with a more regular pressure applied to the grip--

“--And the weight alone isn’t the only issue. Can’t say I know a lot about mechanics,” Trafalgar says, breaking Kid’s thoughts. “But the human body is much like a well oiled machine. Many micro and macro structures working together to create motion, reactions, senses…”

He flips to a new sheet of lined paper, places it over the makeshift crate table, and clicks his pen. Kid watches curiously as Trafalgar traces his hand onto the paper, utterly mystified. It’s like drawing finger turkeys in kindergarten. Not that he’d ever went. However, Trafalgar begins to draw small, thin shapes within each appendage until the entire hand is filled with a sloppy series of them.

“Creating a prosthesis sounds simple in theory, yet the complexity of the human hand alone is ridiculous.” He taps the drawing’s wrist, where there are countless blobs. “The wrist has upwards of twenty bones to allow our typical range--”

“Listen, Traf,” Kid says, already bored. “I’m not here to talk about philosophy and whateverthefuck. Get to the point.”

Trafalgar sighs. 

“If we can mimic the skeletal and muscular structures via artificial parts, then we can make a better functioning prosthetic arm with the right range of movement,” he says.

That’s better. Kid taps his chin, glancing at Trafalgar’s sloppy hand sketch. Crafting some tiny finger bones wouldn’t be terribly hard with the right mold. And with a lighter metal--perhaps something hollowed out to allow for more swift movements...but it couldn’t be too light or else it’ll collapse under too much pressure when he fights or uses his ability...

“Awwright,” Kid says with a nod. “We can do.” He gestures for Trafalgar to hand over the notepad. “Gimme the numbers, Traf.”

Trafalgar doesn’t move. Kid frowns impatiently.

“And what exactly do you plan to do with them?” he asks.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, ye daft eejit! I’m no’ gonna shove it down my throat,” Kid snaps. “The damn arm’s not gonna design  _ itself _ .”

The statement makes Trafalgar perk up. With some hesitation, he reluctantly tears several pages from the notebook and holds them out. Kid snatches them away, eyeing them for a moment before unceremoniously shoving them into his pocket.

“Didn’t know you were into drafting, Eustass,” Law says.

Kid smirks and heads for the door. “There’s a lot ye don’t know ‘bout me, Traf.”


	3. Chapter 3

In retrospect, drafting til ass’o clock and sleeping like the dead on his drawing table until noon was a stupid idea. But hey. At least now Kid had some half-decent sketches going for him. 

He yawns and flips through his array of arms; some lean, some bulky, some a combination of the two. At least three had guns built into them and room to store extra weapons and ammunition. Of course there was still the weight issue to consider, so perhaps it’d be best left delegated to his usual belt arsenal...

The papers are haphazardly shoved into an old book on magnetism (which worked way better as a folder than it did as reading material. It was boring as _ fuck _ ). He pulls on the nearest shirt--which happens to be on the bed he hadn’t slept in--stuffs the book into his jacket, and sets off. He’s missed breakfast. Whatever. He’d just down a second helping of lunch, maybe pilfer some of Killer’s in retaliation for yesterday.

On his way toward the bathroom, Trafalgar passes him in the hall with half a dozen papers of his own in various colors. He appeared deep in thought. But, just as Kid got his hopes up that they’d pass each other without a word, Trafalgar glances up at him.

“Nice tattoo.”

Kid frowns. “What?”

“Your cheek,” Trafalgar says, tapping his own right cheek. “Might want to get that. Others might find it humerus.”

Before he could ask what the fresh hell that even meant, Trafalgar was off down the hall. Kid made a face at him and ducked away into the bathroom. He sizes himself up. Well. His hair’s not too bad. He doesn’t smell awful either. Probably could forgo a shower. Maybe just some freshening up and then...

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of something on his face. His cheek had a light graphite imprint of a lean upper arm bone from one of his prototype designs. The one he fell asleep working on. He stares at himself. 

Arm bone. Humerus. Humorous. 

He groans and hastily rubs at his cheek. Fucking Trafalgar used a pun on him.  _ God _ . 

Despite the sleep-deprivation, Kid shuffles out onto the deck a few minutes later with a grin on his face. The air is crisp and cool, saturated with the scent of iron. Members of his crew were already hard at work moving cargo to and fro, preparing the rigging, and tending to their usual duties.  In the distance, the rusting remnants of ships, weapons, crumbling walls, barbed wire, tools, and machines. They’ve all been carefully stacked around a mountainous chunk of island as an impenetrable barricade to their fortress. Several wrecks were still visible; crushed by impact or the cannon fire of the Kid Pirates’ ship. It was a personal touch. To show dumbasses what happens when they encroach on Kid’s turf.

“Dump sweet dump,” Killer remarks, gaze fixed on the horizon.

“Oi, that’s  _ our _ dump, Killer,” Kid says, elbowing him as he passes by. “‘Tis a damn  _ bonny _ dump.” 

The ship nears the iron barrier within minutes. Kid hurries to the stern and perches on the bowsprit. With a quick glance to make sure the crew (and Trafalgar) were watching, he lifted his hand into the air. The barrier rattled. A chunk of a large Marine warship ascended from the sea, revealing a pathway through the wreckage large enough for them to pass. He hoisted it up into the air, out of the way, and onto another chunk of metal.

“Hm.” Kid scowls when Trafalgar approaches him from behind. He looks at the rusted hull of the vessel as they pass it by. “Clever.”

“Tch. Ye think  _ this _ is impressive? Some low fuckin’ standards ye got.”

The metal was quickly put back in place, perhaps a bit more roughly than it should’ve. The sealing of the path sent waves rocking the Kid Pirates’ ship. Kid nearly lost his footing. Stupid fucking Marine boat...

“So this is the forge?” Trafalgar asks, walking to the side of the ship.

Kid eyes him, then walks over to stand beside him. The rocky shores of the islet gave it the appearance of some worthless little nothing piece of land. However, as they drew closer, mine shafts, buildings, and complex machinery emerged. The majority of it had fallen into disrepair, whether by negligence or rain Kid was ultimately unsure. Either way, the place was a ghost town when they’d come upon it.

Whatever. Free real estate.

“Aye,” he responds. “And before ye ask, I’m no’ sharing it.”

With that, he stomps off, leaving Trafalgar to  _ hopefully _ stew in his jealousy. The Heart Pirates didn’t have a single goddamn piece of land to their name. Pathetic.

The hull bumps against a makeshift bunch of rubber pads strung together on their ramshackle dock. Kid doesn’t wait for the ship to be secured to leap from the deck, Killer in tow. Damn, it feels good to be back in his element. Surrounding himself with a ridiculous amount of metals has always felt homey. The Devil Fruit only added to that--he can just  _ feel _ the ore in the goddamn ground, right through the soles of his boots.

“Ye on sharpening then, Kill?” he asks, turning to face his first mate.

“Shouldn’t one of us monitor Trafalgar?”

Kid side-eyes the ship. Trafalgar, bag in hand, was descending the gangway.

“Pfft. He's in the middle o' the sea surrounded by things I kin use t’ skin ‘im,” Kid says. “Eejit should damn well keep in line if there’s any brains under that stupid hat.”

Killer shrugs. Kid leaves him there to watch the crew and hurries up onto land. He’s too pleased to give a shit about Doctor Dumbass. Fuck ‘im. 

Maybe at some point this island had been a thriving town. Now? Now it was a decaying bunch of industrial buildings in a backwater junkyard. Not that Kid minded. He’d practically been born and raised in filth.

Some constructs had fallen into such disrepair--collapsed ceilings, plant overgrowth, walls cracked under pressure, unsafe scaffolding--that they’d been left to rot. However, a few of the nicer mining office, barracks, and mess hall buildings were spared the brunt of nature’s re-conquest. A bit of elbow grease from the whole crew and their things were already stuffed to overflow inside and out of them.

Kid wasn’t particularly interested in the old buildings. He’d wanted something new. Something  _ his _ .

Said place was a little shack made from metal siding, carriage parts, a shipping crate, and some bits and pieces of mismatched mining equipment carved right into the rock behind it. His workshop. Just as he’d left it. He slips in through the door and locks it shut behind him. Instinctively he wants to reach for the lamp pull with his left hand. Which no longer exists. He huffs and reaches for it with the right instead.

The tiny bulb illuminates the cluttered space; tools suspended on the walls, forged swords and daggers resting decoratively above his scratched-to-death wooden workbench, papers and references torn from books stuck to the wall with magnetized bolts. And boxes. He kicked several out of the way of his chair. Too many fucking boxes.

He yanks the papers from his book and tosses it aside into a pile of whateverthefuck laying at the far side of the room. Each drawing is carefully magnetized to the wall with washers, bolts, and tarnished coins from a broken ceramic bowl.  There. He steps back. Now that they’re all visible, he already hates the skinnier designs. Two wimpy, too creepy. Walking around with a goddamn skeleton hand wasn’t his style. Not enough weapons, too  _ many _ weapons--

“Pff,” he snorts at that thought. Never such thing as too many weapons.

...Although. He frowns, tilts his head to the side, and rubs his chin in thought. Some of the bulkier designs were a bit clunky. As cool as the shoulder laser was, it’d be a fucking pain in the ass to wear his favorite coat with it. And finding a strap material that could bear that kind of load, keep fastened to his arm stump, take the recoil of the laser when it fires,  _ and _ be comfortable enough to wear regularly…?

Bah.

Someone knocks at the door. He jolts.

“Oi! Locked door means do not FUCKIN’ disturb!” he shouts.

“Where I come from, it’s polite to knock before entering.”

Kid presses his lips together in a fine line. Oh, great. Trafalgar found him. Killer probably pointed the way, too, the bastard. At this rate he was gonna have to keep count of which one of them had a go at the other.

“The hell ye want, Traf?” Kid replies.

“I’d like to compare designs,” Trafalgar replies. “I’m sure you’ve got your heart set on one already, but it’s important for it to be compatible with the sensory components.”

He briefly debates on whether or not he should tell Trafalgar to take his humerus and shove it up his arse. Much as he hates to admit it, the resident doctor would probably know more about prosthetics than he did, wouldn’t he? With a huff, he undoes the several door locks. Trafalgar glances up at him, expressionless. He slips in past Kid with a surprising swiftness. Damn he’s so fucking  _ skinny _ ...

Trafalgar takes in the surroundings, scanning each and every little thing lining the walls. Kid scratches his head and glances away. The anxiety starts to pick at his resolve. This is why he  _ hates _ letting people into his private spaces. They always waltz in and critique  _ every _ empty dish and cold coffee--

“What?” he growls as Trafalgar focuses on a shoe box of cogs and mismatched machine parts.

“Nothing,” Trafalgar replies. He lifts the calendar movement Kid ripped out of some old piece of shit clock. The bronze glitters when he holds it to the light. “It suits you.”

Rather than waste time trying to figure out whether that was a compliment or a sly insult, Kid plucks the movement from Trafalgar’s hands and puts it on a higher shelf. Trafalgar is unfazed. He shrugs and moves off to fixate on Kid’s designs. Kid stares him down. God, the guy is so fucking  _ quiet _ . He can’t stand it.

_ Just fuckin’ say it. My workshop is a fuckin’ pigsty, my designs are shite--just fuckin’ try it! Gimme one damn excuse t’ wring ye fuckin neck--! _

As Kid feels his blood begin to boil, Trafalgar reaches out to pull one of the designs from under a magnet. He flinches. Trafalgar turns thoughtful, humming, squinting, rubbing at the scruff on his chin as if he was reading some research essay.

_ Would ye fuckin’ quit judgin’ it like it’s a bloody piece of--?! _

“Tell me about this one.”

Kid tenses. “Huh?”

Trafalgar hands it over to him. He accepts it. Ah. This one was more bulky looking, but it was largely hollow to reduce the stress and allow him better agility in a fight. Defensive outside for combat with a skeletal frame inside to support it. He eyes Trafalgar for any signs of hostility before he begins.

“Um. Sorta a combination of a couple ideas I’ve got,” Kid says. “Was thinkin’ of aluminium for the arm bones, hollow inside to...uh, fill it with the robotic sensors ‘n stuff. ‘N then titanium armor o’er top it all--”

Trafalgar nods, but says nothing. Kid feels lucky that it’s just dark enough to hide the fact that he’s flushed in the face.  _ Does he like it or hate it? Is he wasting his time talking about it?? Can’t he use his bleedin’ words?! _

“--It--That’s my--” He doesn’t want to call it his weak point. There’s no part of him with a weakness. “--Wanna make i’  _ extra _ durable in a fight, aye?”

“Hm.”

Trafalgar pulls out a green file folder of papers all neatly organized into various categories. Kid peeks over his shoulder. The labels are written in some kinda satanic script he can’t make heads or tails of. But one slot has numerous drafted sketches peeking through. 

He pulls out one specific sheet; half a dozen different blue and black ink sketches of a skinned arm, showing muscles, tendons, bones, and various different movements of the wrist and elbow. Or...that’s about all Kid can gather from it, at least. Trafalgar’s notes are penned in hellish doctor handwriting. Kid furrows his eyebrows. Can this guy even read his own fucking notes??

“The space between the armor and armature would allow for a sturdy muscular build,” Trafalgar says, pointing to Kid’s sketch. “Some simulated muscles to facilitate natural movements of the elbow and finger joints...then for the complexities of the wrist bones…”

“Traf.”

“But of course I’ll examine your other designs, there might be some details we can cross over with this one, or problems they address better than--”

Kid leans down and narrows his eyes. Trafalgar looks up at him.

“D’ya like it or what,” Kid deadpans.

“Yes. I do.”

“Great.”

Silence. Outside the tiny workshop Kid hears his crew shuffling around, talking and laughing. Someone drops metal against concrete. He shifts uncomfortably on his feet. Approval given or not, there’s absolutely no chance he can relax with this shithead in here.  _ You got what ye wanted, Traf, now leave your sodding scribbles on the desk and  _ **_leave_ ** _ \--! _

Maybe Trafalgar can sense the tension. He steps away from Kid to place his diagrams on the wall with all the other designs.

“...Can’t say I know much about the engineering process from here,” he admits, crossing his arms. “Metalworking isn’t my forte.” He turns to Kid. “I don’t suppose you’ve got some ideas for a proper wrist, do you? It’s a rather complicated range of mo--”

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Kid replies. He grips Trafalgar by the shoulder and walks him toward the door. “If ye finished, then get out. I can’t work with ye gloomy vulture face starin’ me down--”

“I simply want to be sure that carpals aren’t outside of your radius, Eustass.”

He unceremoniously shoves Trafalgar back out and bolt-locks the door behind him. But, just before he gets back to what he’d been doing previously, he pauses. Carpals. Radius. Fuck if he knew that that even referred to, but…

Kid scowls. That was another fucking pun, wasn’t it. 


	4. Chapter 4

He’ll build himself a new arm, he said. It’ll be easy enough, he said. Nobody said anything about standing still for this fucking long, slumped over, with his stump arm submerged in some slimy, goopy, cold, disgusting cottage cheese-looking whateverthefuck.

“Is this almost over yet?” Kid grumbles, twitching slightly as he tries to focus on not moving.

Trafalgar glances at his watch. “Five more minutes.”

Kid loudly groans. Didn’t Trafalgar say five more minutes almost five minutes ago?! He can feel gooseflesh going up his arms and shoulders as his hair stands on end. He knows that having a plaster mold is important. He knows precision is key to making the damn arm work. But god if he doesn’t have the patience for modeling; sitting still like this was an agonizingly long waste of his time.

Eventually, Trafalgar gives him the signal. Kid breathes a sigh of relief and wrenches his stumpy arm from the slimy mold, which is then set aside. The lubricant coating his arm makes him wrinkle his nose. It’s like that one time he’d fallen into the sea and came up covered in kelp...

With his good hand and a fistful of his shirt, he furiously wipes the nastiness off without a second thought. He didn’t give a damn about this shirt anyway.

Trafalgar’s fingertips poke and prod at various spots on his shoulders and back. A thin plastic measuring tape goes over his shoulders, around his chest, upper arm, and midsection. It takes everything in Kid not to elbow the fucker in the face and break his fucking nose. Especially after he feels the wet tip of a sharpie on his skin.

“...The fuck’re ye doin’ now?” Kid grumbles, awkwardly trying to see Trafalgar behind him.

“ _ Don’t _ move,” Trafalgar responds sternly. “I’m marking the muscles that control your arm. It’s vital to make this as accurate as possible, or else the arm’s motherboard won’t respond to electrical impulses in your nerves.”

“Ugggh…”

A poke. A circle drawn on his back. The  _ schick _ of that measuring tape unfurling. The sound of Trafalgar scribbling on paper. It repeated over and over. Kid bounces his leg, brow furrowed as he chews his cheek.

“That’ll do for now.”

Immediately, Kid stands up, breathes a loud sigh of relief, and stretches his remaining extremities.

“Fuckin’  _ finally _ !” he complains. “Grab ye bloody stump hole and let’s get moving.”

He’d spent the past few nights rummaging around his boxes of parts. While he had plenty of intricate little hinges to mimic fingers and elbows, the complex joints needed to allow for full mobility of an arm were way outside his area of expertise. Too many little moving parts, not enough arms  _ or _ patience.

Which, of course, meant a trip to the nearest island with a reliable mechanic. With Trafalgar. Thankfully, only a few hours in a boat there and back, but. Still.  _ With Trafalgar _ .

If he didn’t spontaneously combust from sheer boredom, he’d be shocked.

 

* * *

The entire trip was embarrassing.

He knows his shit when it comes to engineering. But a one handed engineer that still reaches for shit with his nonexistent left hand was fucking useless. He couldn’t assemble anything himself. He couldn’t get a good feel of the parts like he usually did. No, he was stuck watching the guy behind the counter of the hardware store awkwardly try to give him what he wanted while sweating buckets under the pressure of being stared down by a Supernova. And it took forever.

Parts in hand--with no payment because fuck that, the waste of his time was payment enough--he storms out of the shop. All he wants to do is go home and make this fucking prosthetic so he can go back to full working order.

Now where the fuck is Trafalgar with that silicone mold?

Kid glances around him at the civilians passing him by. Some flinch when they catch his craggy face, others peer curiously at the knotted left arm of his sweater. He glares at them, effectively spooking them. Then, he awkwardly scratches at the blunt end through the fabric.

_ Yeah yeah. I’m a freak. Keep fucking walking and be glad I’m too busy to gouge your fucking eyes out. _

Kitschy little towns like this were like warts; ugly, useless, and worthless. All these normal people living their pathetic little existences blissfully unaware of everything around them. Looking at each and every person hardened by the bullshit bludgeoning life dished out to them like they were the real freaks. White picket fences and scrapbooking was fucking abnormal.

A gaggle of girls comes out from a shop, paper bags of goods hanging off their elbows. They’re all smiles, talking about some event in town Kid doesn’t particularly care about. No, he’s a bit too focused on the way their silky hair bounces on their shoulders. And the dimples that form when the brunette laughs. And how the blond one bumps her glasses up so gently to her chestnut eyes. And how the short, chubby one snorts when she laughs…

_ Dammit. _

Kid stands up a bit straighter, shoulders back, head held high. Or was that too intimidating…? Fuck. He leans up against the brickwork of the building he’s standing outside of and tucks his hand into his pocket. Maybe if he looks cool and casual…?  They come closer, a flurry of clicking heels and ruffling paper. Kid pretends he hadn’t just been admiring the whole group from afar. Because that was definitely fucking weird. 

He turns his gaze toward some goat statue in a water fountain instead like it was even remotely interesting. Play it cool, play it cool...

There’s a sudden hush over the girls as they come closer to him. Their pace slows, their eyes boring into him as they take extra care to give him plenty of space on the sidewalk. Even though he’s staring at that stupid goat, he can see it in their eyes.

Fear. They’re  _ afraid _ of him.

As he turns to look at them, the brunette gasps and hurries her friends away. They start whispering like he can’t hear them. But he can pick up on some of it;  _ scars, missing arm, thug, vicious, monster _ .  When they’re far enough away, he lets out a long sigh and slumps his shoulders. Why the fuck does he even bother trying, again?

He catches his sharp, angular face in the glass of a storefront and rubs his cheek. It’s all jagged edges shaped by scowls, streetfights, and malnutrition. His nose has a weird tweak to it where he broke it and the damn thing never healed right. And his eyebrows were still spiting him after being burned off. _Fuck_. Even a mother couldn’t love this face. Maybe that was why he never knew her.

“For the record, I don't think you look that bad.”

Kid jolts, and whips his head around to see Trafalgar standing there. All casual like he didn’t just barge in on someone’s personal fucking space.

“Piss off with ye useless fuckin’ pity, Traf.”

“It’s not pity.”

“Bullshit. Ye feelin’ so sorry for me cause there's fuck all I can do t’ fix the...y'know...the…” Kid struggles for a moment, waving his hand in a vague gesture before he points directly at his face. “... _ this _ .”

Trafalgar blinks. 

“...What’s wrong with it?”

“What's  _ wrong _ with it?!” Kid snaps. “This ain't a face t’ go pickin’ up dates with, ye daft eejit!”

“The right girl won’t mind.”

The right fucking girl. Yeah, okay. It’s not like Killer hasn’t told him that a thousand times already. It’s already meaningless and falls on deaf ears now.

_ It’s a weakness _ . That’s what his common fucking sense tells him. The fact that he even wants that--it’s just some instinctive part of being human. Not something he needs, not something that’ll help him in the long run. He can’t afford any distractions if he wants to be Pirate King. What he really needs is to stay focused.  A relationship would do nothing but slow him down. It dulls the senses and adds another target for enemies to aim at.

“Can I ask you something?” Trafalgar speaks up again. Kid grunts in response. “Assuming you achieve whatever it is you want out of life...what will you do from then on?”

Kid pauses to think about it. Well. Logically, he should conquer all the prime real estate and reap the benefits. He’d be fighting off hordes of wannabes who were after his title. Not that anyone would ever dream of winning. Being the best meant that he was the motherfucking  _ best _ . He could have anything he wanted. Period.

“The hell’s tha’ s’posed t’ mean?” Kid replies. “Whatever th’  _ fuck _ I want. Obviously.”

“Alright,” Trafalgar says with a hum.

God, he can just _ feel _ unsaid judgement oozing out of Trafalgar’s smug-ass self. Is he mocking him?! Implying he  _ can’t _ get anything and everything he wants?! It takes all his self control not to fucking wring his neck. 

_ Shit talk me, I fucking dare you! Try it! See what happens! _

He huffs, hunches his shoulders, and grips the handles of his bag. It’s not like he needs a relationship. He has people. Killer, his crew. He just...doesn’t do romance. Even if someone were interested--he was made to rule, not to love. It’s not in his design.

“Hypothetically speaking…” Trafalgar continues. “If you had the chance, would you?”

Kid narrows his eyes at Trafalgar. What’s his deal? Does he think they’re friends now? Because, bloody hell, if he does he’s got another thing coming. Eustass Captain Kid does NOT get sappy with dickheaded prettyboys.

“ _ Tch _ . I dinnae,” Kid replies. “She'd have t’ hit some pretty specific standards.”

Trafalgar shrugs. “There’s a surprising amount of specific people in this world,” he says.

The idea of Trafalgar trying to comfort him made his blood boil. But also, the statement brought a strange sort of...well, not quite  _ hope _ , but a renewed spark. Yeah, why couldn’t he pick up chicks, huh? Girls are into more than faces, right? He’s got muscles. He’s got money. He’s got power through infamy.  He’s also covered in ugly red scars that haven’t even healed properly yet and is missing an entire arm.  _ Ugh _ . 

That’s it, he’s wholeheartedly done thinking about this.

“Did ye get the mold?” he asks.

“Of course.” Trafalgar holds up a sizable paper bag. “Took about an hour to finish it. She gave me some excellent advice about how to properly clean and wrap your arm to protect your skin from the--”

“Yeah yeah, whatever. Tell me later when I give more of a shit.”

Trafalgar rolls his eyes, but Kid can’t be assed to comment on it. He focuses his mind on the prototype prosthesis; the delicate layout, casting his own molds for the aluminum skeleton and titanium armor bits, how much he’ll be forced to rely on Killer for...

He catches sight of that group of girls again, off to their far left now in front of a tiny cafe. They’ve forgotten that ugly pirate they walked by, too busy with their coffee and cakes. Of course they have.  _ Of course _ they can just ignore the dude trying his best  _ not _ to seem fucking scary for once in his life.  Kid feels his left hand’s fingers twitch and he shivers, like a ghost had phased through him. Hanging around in some fucking fantasy world where he hadn’t almost been hacked in two wouldn’t do him any good. Not while he still looked like  _ this _ .

Briefly, he considers what he might look like with a standard prosthetic arm. Something...flesh-colored. Easier to disguise under his sleeves. That’d make him seem normal, wouldn’t it?

( _ Fuck being normal _ , his sensible side says.  _ Fuck normal people. They’re a bleedin’ mindless herd of sheep plaguing humanity. _ )

Still.  _ Still _ ...


	5. Chapter 5

Kid hates how his thoughts linger on those girls. 

It’s fucking stupid. Why should he give a shit what some bitches think about him? There’s another thousand girls where they came from. So what if he’s fucking hideous? The future Pirate King could have whatever girlfriend he wanted! A dozen girls on his arm! Hundreds, even!

He scowls at his rugged reflection in an aging mirror in the decaying lounge. The rust and dirt on the polished surface makes it hard to see, but he can still find all the little details that he absolutely fucking hates. He inspects his teeth; some dark bits of whatever were clinging to them. He rubs them off with his tongue. There. Clean and white. Which means fuck all when the rest of him looks little better than a sloppily peeled potato. Complete with missing chunks.

“Oi, Killer?” he calls back to his partner. “Where d’ya think I’d find a girl dunderheided enough tae kiss this ugly mug?”

Killer looks up from his bowl of pasta. Linguine noodles hang limply from the holes in his mask while alfredo sauce drips down his chin.

“Depends,” he replies. “Do you want a girlfriend or do you just want physical attention?”

Kid contemplates this. 

“I want  _ somethin’ _ .”

“Well, you’re in luck. There’s a brothel down the street,” Killer says. He resumes eating nonchalantly. “But if you wanna save some cash, I could kiss you myself and call it a day.”

“ _ Eugh! _ ” Kid shudders violently and bops Killer on the shoulder. “Dinnae even _ joke _ about that!”

Killer turns toward him again and, even with the mask, Kid knows  _ exactly _ what his expression looks like.

“After all we’ve been through, after everything I’ve done...you don’t want me to kiss you. I’m offended,” Killer deadpans. He feeds a few more noodles into his face. They slither in quickly and disappear with a wet  _ pop _ . “Poor Killer. Unloved by his best friend. Rejected, dejected. Woe is me.”

“Aye, that’s right, ye big hairy robot,” Kid says haughtily. “Only the best of th’ best for the future Pirate King. And ye nasty garlic breath deters vampires, girls,  _ and _ attractive pirate captains in high demand.”

“Perfect.” Another  _ pop _ . “I hate all of those things.”

Kid holds his composure for all of five seconds before he starts cackling. He clutches at his side while his partner remains stoic as ever. Then, his gaze drifts back to his reflection. The smile slips away and he shakes his head. God, is he really going to let this get to him so bad?

“Seriously, what’s this about?” Killer asks. “Why are you so interested in girls all of the sudden?”

“I’ve  _ always _ been interested in girls, ye daft eejit,” Kid replies with a snort. “Just ‘cause I’m not a bleedin’ cry baby whingin’ ‘bout some stupid ex or wrigglin’ every time some bird walks by don’t mean I’ve stopped likin’ ‘em.”

Killer shrugs. “Just seems sudden. That’s all.”

Kid rolls his eyes. What, was Killer really going to grill him for context? Come on. Can’t he just suddenly, for no reason, want some feminine company?

…

Alright, fair enough, that sounds far too weird not to ask about.

“Dinnae,” he mumbles. He lumbers over to Killer and plops onto the couch. “Some herd of bitches from that island got me thinkin’ again, I s’pose.” He scratches under his goggles. “Or maybe it’s just fuckin’ Trafalgar gettin’ intae my head again…”

Killer looks at him. “Did he say something?”

“Sort of.”

“Did you deck him for it?”

Kid grins. “Not _ that  _ kinda somethin’, Kill,” he says. “He said...I don’t look that bad. ‘N that same shite ye always say ‘bout, “the right girl,”.”

“So you can listen to Doctor Doom when he gives dating advice, but not your best friend, the scythe-murdering lady killer?” Killer huffs and crosses his arms. “I’m offended again. Twice in less than an hour. I can’t believe you treat me like this.”

“Oh shuttup, ye fuckin’ weapon! Ye can’t deny it’s weird, ain’t it?” Kid gestures at nothing with vague but aggressive shakes of the hand. “What’s he want? Tae get my guard down? Butter me up wit’ compliments ‘n expect me to offer somethin’ on a silver platter?” A pause. He clicks his tongue. “Think he wants my kidney?”

“Of course not,” Killer responds. “He wants  _ both _ kidneys.”

 

* * *

 

The very first robot Kid ever made was stiff and clunky. Assembled from some old clock parts and whatever garbage he found, the most it could do was clumsily twist its head--with a tic and strange clicking noise since he hadn’t put it together properly. The second attempt, he’d tried to make it walk. He’d only gotten one leg to bend.

Strange thinking about it now as he watches the fingers of his prototype arm clench, unclench, gesture, and point. So fluid and seemingly effortless. As if he hadn’t just spent three nonstop days assembling all the itty bitty fucking pieces and screaming every time he lost one.

It’s still just the fingers stuck onto a temporary blocky stump of a hand. At least until he gets the movements  _ perfect _ . Impatient as he is, if he rushes this it’s going to be an awful mess again. He’s nowhere near ready to take on the stupidly complicated wrist yet or figure out wiring that won’t get in his way. And Trafalgar’s insisted on messing about with the interior before he can move any further. Something something “practice with a model before they get too far” something.

“There’s a twitch,” Trafalgar points out. “Ah, right there. In the pinky finger. Where the proximal and middle phalanx meet.”

“Does, “work in progress,” mean fuck all tae ye?” Kid snaps.

Trafalgar shrugs and steps back, walking to the other side of Kid, who’s wondering when the fuck he’d given this dickhead permission to come and go in  _ his _ personal space as he wanted. Collaboration or not, the fucker could at least knock.

He settles down on a heavy old safe that Kid had harvested the door and locking mechanism from. Over Trafalgar’s shoulder is what Kid assumes is the practice model arm. Said model turns out to be a shitty piece of pvc piping in a vague peach color with wires masking-taped to it. The kind of ugly garbage some average person would tote around to feel more normal.

“I’m  _ not _ wearin’ tha’ tupperware piece’a shite,” Kid mutters, unscrewing the sticky joint of the hand’s pinky finger. “Couldn’t ye get somethin’ that doesn’ look like ye offed a crash test dummy for ‘is bits?”

Trafalgar says nothing and, like always, helps himself to Kid’s personal space. He taps at Kid’s shoulder, which is magnetized to a set of clamps holding the pieces of finger together. Kid grumbles, rolls his eyes, and releases the metal. The clamps stay. Everything else clatters to the ground like loose change.

The prosthesis is uncomfortable and rigid, and slightly too tight around the circumference of his upper arm. It stinks like cheap plastic and old people. Like it’d just been pilfered from some retirement village. The support straps, aged to discoloration, were surprisingly well-suited to his figure, however. For a solid thirty seconds after Trafalgar steps back, Kid feels relatively normal again.

You know, if it weren’t for the arm hanging like dead weight and the creepy-ass doctor’s skeleton fingers sticking wires onto his back.

“Alright,” Trafalgar says, stepping back again. Some electrical thingamabob made from some old transponder parts and a keypad was in his hands. “Programming isn’t my strong suit, so your crewmen helped me assemble this crude device to help program muscle memory commands.”

Kid eyes him. “Which ones?”

“Oscar and Haikei.”

He grunts in response. Well, at least some capable people were working with them on this. He moves around a bit in his chair, hunching his shoulders, relaxing. All around getting comfortable before the inevitable Trafalgar’s boring bootcamp drills from hell.

“Awright,” he says. “Let’s get this o’er wit’.”

Trafalgar taps out some code into the keypad. “Think about opening your missing hand,” he says.

“...Whit?” Kid turns back to stare incredulously at him. “How d’ye make a missin’ arm move?? Fat load a’ good that’s gonna do!”

“Just do it, Eustass.”

Kid stares at the ceiling before looking down at the prosthetic limb. The fingers are blocky and awkward looking, with wires going down all the way to the fingertips. He knits his eyebrows together. Imagining this as his own hand was a stretch at best. But...perhaps, if he closed his eyes?

He focuses on the feeling of his phantom limb, which continued to remind him that he did in fact once have something there. A memory resurfaces; an encounter with an enemy, where he held his left hand high and clenched it into a fist, summoning all available metal--

“Eustass.”

\--Enough so that the entire length of his arm was covered in scrap. Strengthened by the support of his own body, he lashed out at the unsuspecting men, snapping them like balsa wood. Their blood-curdling screams of sheer  _ terror _ \--

“Listen, I appreciate your enthusiasm, Eustass, but you’re overdoing it.”

“...Huh?”

Kid opens his eyes. The plastic prosthesis’ fingers are closed into a fist. All around it, pieces of metal from his shop have started to accumulate. His hanging weapons and tools are pointing toward him and Trafalgar, feeling the pull as well. He blinks. The magnetism fades. The metal around him clinks and clatters back into position. Whoops.

“Looks like you didn’t disrupt the electric current of this device,” Trafalgar comments. “Must be your crewmen factored that into its design.”

He feels his face flush and he scratches the back of his head. Of course they did. They knew all too well how he was, and he couldn’t decide if he appreciated or hated that they had him all figured out.

“Yeah,” is the only thing he mutters in response.

“Let’s continue, shall we? And don’t overdo it this time.”

Kid wrinkles his nose and wants so badly to tell Trafalgar to go dunk his head in the sea. In an extraordinary gesture of self-restraint, he holds off. Trafalgar  _ better _ appreciate that he’s not dead yet.  The next several hours--or at least it  _ feels _ like several hours, he doesn’t have a working watch--are little more than him trying to conjure up the memory the most tiny, stupid little gestures. Trafalgar’s lifeless, monotonous voice isn’t helping matters, either. It’s like the man was an emotionless robot.

_ Hold your hand out flat, Eustass. Extend your pointer finger, Eustass. Pretend you’re grasping a pencil, Eustass. No, Eustass, we’ve already practiced the middle finger. You’re magnetizing yourself again, Eustass. _

_ Let’s take a break now, Eustass. _

“Are ye done  _ yet _ ?” he whines, rotating his aching shoulder.

“Not even close,” Trafalgar responds, much to his dismay. “I don’t think you realize just how complicated the individual movements of the hand are.” He hums and looks at the device. “...But, I suppose this should be sufficient practice for today. Good work. We can continue tomorrow.”

“Yeah yeah, don’ go pridin’ yerself too much--” Kid pauses, contemplating the off-handed compliment. He narrows his eyes at Trafalgar. “...Th' fuck’s yer issue?”

Trafalgar looks up at him. “Excuse me?”

“Don’ play stoopid wit’ me,” he says. “Whitever ye plannin’ with these kinda compliments, I’m no’ buyin’ it. Just cuz we’re workin’ together dinnae mean we’re friends,  _ aye _ ?”

“Praise for a job well done isn’t an indication of friendship. Don’t over-analyze it.”

Kid mumbles something. He undoes the straps holding the prosthesis to him and lets it fall to the ground with a relieved sigh. God, he’s already gotten used to that side of him being lighter now, hasn’t he? How weak.

As Trafalgar messes about with the programming device, Kid immediately sets upon recollecting his parts and bits from before. After that colossal waste of time he’s behind on his own design. He magnetizes the clamp to his stump arm and resumes his work. Alright, where did Trafalgar say that twitch was, again…? Ah, right. The joint...perhaps a bit of lubricant would clear it up.

He pushes back in his rolling chair and begins to dig through his cluttered shelf. Carriage bits, heavy bolts, aerosol cans, rusty weapons, grimy train wheels. Where’d he put it?

“Did you...make this _ bigger _ ?” 

Kid looks over his shoulder at Trafalgar, who’s leaning over his desk to scrutinize his latest sketch of his arm’s outer armor. It was indeed bigger. Thicker and stronger, too. Turns out he needed to tweak the proportions and weight to deliver a stronger punch and allow for more defense.

“Maybe,” Kid replies.

“Why?”

“Cuz,” Kid responds, not looking up from the piles of grimy parts. “It’s more intimidating that way.”

“Seems more like overcompensation.”

Kid snorts out a laugh. “Only fuckin’ weaklings ‘n their micro dicks overcompensate.”

“Hm.” Kid hears him scribble something down. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never owned one.”

_ Of course Trafalgar would say somethin’ like that. _ Kid continues sorting through huge-ass screws, bolts, and gears.  _ Fuckin’ weirdo’s always jugglin’ ev’ryone’s bits and _ \--wait. He considers Trafalgar’s words. Hold on. What?

He stops, turns back toward Trafalgar, and blinks. Trafalgar meets his gaze moments later, seeming unsurprised by Kid’s utter confusion.

“I’m trans, Eustass.”

The metaphorical gears in Kid’s head tick by. Then, he realizes what Trafalgar’s referring to.

“--Oh,” he says. “Right, aye.”

...Which, come to think of it, was far more information about Trafalgar’s innards than he ever wanted to know. But it was just like him to overshare, wasn’t it? Fucking Trafalgar. Kid shook his head and continued digging through his supplies. Doctors were disgusting.

“...It _ ain’t _ compensation, ye daft numpty,” Kid continues while he reads the labels of three different oil canisters. “Not all of us got th’ world’s most powerful Devil Fruit or whit th’ fuck ever. It pays tae be prepared, ye ken? ‘N that starts wit’ bein’ physically stronger ‘n th’ ither guy. Wimps don’ survive out ‘ere in th’ New World. That’s th’ rules.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of Trafalgar turning toward him. He studies Kid for a good few seconds before quietly settling back down on top of the safe.

“Survival of the fittest is more than raw strength and brutality,” Trafalgar says. “The theory refers to one’s ability to adapt in the face of sudden, rapid change.”

More scribbling. More button pushing. Kid finally locates that stupid fucking bottle of lubricant all the way at the back on the lowest level of the shelf.

He’s getting awfully tired of Trafalgar critiquing him on every single fucking thing he says and does. He’s getting awfully tired of Trafalgar’s voice and presence in general. The moment he returns to his desk with all intention to tell the man to sit his ass somewhere  _ far _ out of sight, though, Trafalgar’s already brushing past him to head for the door. He unlocks and pulls open the door--and pauses to give Kid one last look.

“...I think you understood that detail already, though. Even if you hadn’t realized it,” he remarks. “It does take a certain type of person to withstand what you have and still have the capacity to work with it.”

The comment catches him off guard. Kid pretends to ignore him and stay focused purely on fixing the stuck joint. Trafalgar chuckles.

“You struck me as a nihilistic meathead when we first met, you know,” he continues. “But I’m starting to believe there’s more to you than that, even if you only ever think about wealth and power.”

“Yeah yeah,” Kid mutters. “Don’ let th’ door skelp ye on th’ way out.”

Said door creaks and shuts moments later, with no further comment. When Kid hears Trafalgar’s shoes crunching gravel, heading distinctly away from the workshop, he casts a glance toward the door’s covered windows.  He’s used to overwhelming support from his partner and crew. Killer’s been loyal to him since they were little. Yet...it’s strange, hearing it from an acquaintance. That he’s worth more than a second glance. 

No. He doesn’t do soft. Compliments are a given, right? Some rival’s pretty words are just there to butter him up. Weaken him.

He presses his lips into a fine line and scowls, despite the warm feeling that settles over him.


End file.
